With One Breath
by The-Music-of-hands
Summary: It was my first kiss. It wasn’t hers. But that was okay. It was more than okay. Because, after that…It didn’t matter. JamieX?


Disclaimer: If I owned it..I'd be rich.

_A/N_

_Here's to another random story. Actually dedicated to a friend. Anyway, I just sat down, moping in extreme angst, and wrote up this pretty little plot. _

_A toast to insanity!_

_TMoh_

With One Breath

You know that one saying, the one that practically everyone knows, and the one that just manages to make someone think even if they don't feel like thinking about anything anymore.

"You don't know what you got till' it's gone…" The one that always makes you double back, quarter turn, and remember all the things that you have lost. That one saying that always manages to make everyone feel sorry for themselves…

Like if you ripped up a picture of your family and then regretted it in five minutes, or you really never appreciated that puppy your parents bought until it actually became road kill. When something's out of your reach, you suddenly just…start to care. Only when something's gone, only then do you realize how much you really loved it. Like if your bother ate the last piece of pumpkin pie and after it was halfway down his throat you realized that you were _really _hungry for that certain piece of pie.

What if it was your life? That one person who just kind of pops up out of nowhere, smiling and kisses you goodnight? You know that one special person. The girl who you love…adore. The girl you can't possibly live without, because frankly, she _is _your life. You say you love her, you give her presents, you fight, and you make up, and course when you both are so incredibly alive with each other…you think nothing about death.

"I can't live without you…"

Is this true to your word…? Or just something for the romantic setting…maybe, something so you can get laid?

What is life (To be taken lightly?) Is life pictures, puppies?

Maybe a half eaten piece of pumpkin pie?

I'd say, appreciate the bouquet, before it dies.

Did I follow that saying? Did I care about the pie?

I cared, sure…

But…I didn't appreciate the fact that we only had life together. Such a short time…. Life can be a day, three hours, two minutes…a second. Do we appreciate it before it's gone?

I didn't.

And hell, I missed it. I still miss it, miss her, her smile.

Damn…here we go again, whispering, telling stories…

Remembering…

Sometimes…I wish I couldn't.

I was an ignorant person, uptight, bitchy, and full of repressed attitude that even surprised the worst PMS Queens. Even more, I was a guy. And like in every story where there's a single guy who's repressed, and most likely full of hormones' that we never even begin to try and understand, there's a girl somewhere. Not like in the story books where everything ends up perfect, and whoop-de-doo, we kiss, have fifteen kids and live till' we're nine hundred and can barely even take a crap without passing out. Nope.

Life is short. And imperfect….and full of mistakes. Which are—in probability—mostly mine I'd like to think… We never really had a conversation, sure we exchanged glares, glances, hurried little formality's before we were whisked away by the wind, by our chores, by our lives. I can tell you right now, if you 

had called what I lived a life before I met her, then damn, you really need a shrink, a really good one, maybe even a…specialist.

Fuck everyone to hell if back then I didn't need one.

She had this really nice hair, I remember that. Kind of short, kind of curly, it was always puffy when she stumbled out of her house to groggily pick up the morning paper. There were shadows beneath her eyes like she had a slumber party every night. I knew enough to know that she had had one miscarriage, and last year, an abortion. Back then.

I simply didn't care.

She worked pretty hard though. Had two little gardens, some pots full of flowers, a front porch swing that she hired someone make for her. Her little cottage, her little house, her little sanctuary... It took me three months of passing the house, constantly walking by and staring through the windows, watching her chopping food on a cutting board or pouring tea into a cup. It took me three months to talk to her, and when I did.

She was leaving.

Not gone, but leaving. She had a sickness in her head, wrong dosage, wrong hormones, and wrong medication to do the job right. She was sick, and for three months, I wanted her to get better. So I talked to her.

She never talked back.

We sat there on her porch swinging the creak of the metal silently squeaking, providing music; music for ears that we had none for.

"You like sweets?" I asked her one day, my cheeks gently lifting into a smile, something I would've never even thought of doing three months ago. She nodded her head, smiled softly at me, kicked her feet against the ground, and made us soar.

Just looking at her face…It made me soar, with or without a swing, and at that moment, when her wind chimes clinked and whispered in the soft spring breeze, and her feet just stopped and she curled them under her, when she looked at me. Her eyes were heavy lidded, her breath no husky panting of desire.

Innocent conquest, that's what I'd like to think it meant to me…and her. And For a moment, my lips just kind of brushed hers, just kind of touched for one meager second. But if you really think about it, that was all we really needed. She breathed out a little, touched her bottom lip with her finger, and couldn't believe that I had kissed her.

It was my first kiss.

It wasn't hers.

But that was okay.

It was more than okay.

Because, after that…

It didn't matter.

We had a month growing on us, just walking down the dirt path, admiring the beaches, my hand occasionally slipping into her own…It was perfect. But, isn't that how everything is?

_Until it ends_

She never uttered a word, and I know that she could talk. I heard her talking to herself, reading to herself, when she thought that I wasn't listening. Her voice croaked at times, stuttered at others, the victim of too many drugs, too much medication, too much suffering.

But to me, it was the most, the best, the most beautiful thing I think I have ever heard.

To hear the voice of the one you love. Like a ringing in your head that never stops, a beautiful ringing, that's what it was like for me. One day, I held her hand, and she screamed. Loud, ear piercing…she just kept screaming, just kept crying. Couldn't get enough of it, couldn't let it all out.

We were standing in front of the abortion clinic, in front of a thousand deaths.

Her baby's death…

I walked her home, she cried, sobbed. I walked her home, opened her front door, she still cried. Poured her tea, she cried into that.

I walked her home, held her hand, sung lullaby's.

Nothing I could do would help.

We were happy.

Happiness is a minute in twenty four hours. The rest is just tears. The rest is just life.

I held her hand, I walked her home. I couldn't fathom the pain, fathom the tears, fathom guilt, and fathom anything that had to do with suffering. I had never suffered.

That's what made us different.

Too different for her…too different for happiness…

One month passed, I still held her hand.

Her garden died.

Two months passed, I still talked to her.

The porch swing broke.

Three months passed, I came around every once in a while.

Another month passed and I was back to looking in her window. She came outside, sat in the grass. I sat by her. Her wrists were red. There were bruises dark and painful under her eyes, the rims bright red from crying, from guilt, from heartbreak. We walked in. I made her dinner.

Meatloaf, green beans, rice…

Brownies for dessert…

She liked sweets.

We watched a movie. Can't remember what it was about. She fell asleep on my shoulder.

I kissed her. Walked away, put a blanket on her, my heart beating, tears smarting in my eyes.

I wrapped up the leftover brownies. Walked out, locked the door behind me. Watched as she slept through the window…

I fell asleep on her porch swing, a ring in my hand.

I couldn't ask…

Not until the morning. Not until she was awake. Not until…she stopped crying.

I realized…she was practically why I was alive. I smiled…

But only around her…

The next day, I woke up around seven, tasted chocolate brownie aftertaste lingering in my mouth, felt the ring enclosed in my hand, palms sweating up a storm. She was awake. Making tea. I walked away. Couldn't ask, couldn't break the question, and couldn't break her heart. She meant everything. Don't know why I didn't ask.

I sat on my porch, the ring still encased with cold sweat, aftertaste still fresh chocolate disgusting in my mouth, the question lingering in the back of my mind. How could I make her happy? By asking her? Marrying her?

I took a nap.

Sometime in the afternoon, an ambulance drove by, red lights flashing, sirens screaming full blast in my ears.

Ambulances were rare in our town. I followed.

I ended up at her house, surrounded with yellow tape, surrounded with people. I told them I was her brother. They let me in.

"_Nami?"_

I called her name. Grew frantic, the taste too horrible in my mouth. Tasted like fear…like fear and leftover brownies. Someone was looking through her journal. I took it away, glared at them, walked into the bathroom. Smelled something weird…spilled shampoo, and smoke.

Opened the shower curtain, her mouth wide open, screaming. Silence…

She never talked.

Her hair was red, but then again, so was the tub, silky pink, slowly dripping its way down the drain. I dropped the ring.

It landed on her stomach.

I saw the gun. Couldn't breathe, couldn't move…couldn't talk. Not even her name. Nothing…lingering in my voice, just raspy breathing, the gun, her, the gun, her, the ring, the gun, _**her.**_ I couldn't even cry. Just sat there, looked at her, and looked at the cuts on her wrist, the shadows under her eyes. Police came in, pushed me aside, and checked her pulse.

Nothing…

I checked my own.

Nothing…

They put her on the stretcher, her mouth open in a silent scream.

She never talked.

I couldn't either.

I ran the water; watched the drain suck up the diluted pink swirls, gurgling as it gradually gulped it all up, burping warm puffs of satisfied mist in my face. Tears pricked my eyes. I didn't cry yet. I walked into the kitchen; saw the brownies on the counter where they were last night. The plastic wrap had been peeled off. Two squares were missing. I looked at the kitchen table, two brownies on a single plate, two shiny glass teacups set at two different chairs, a teakettle between them. I looked closer, saw paper wedged underneath the kettle. Pulled it out. Ignored the flow of sweet smelling tea flowing over in the tablecloth, cold, disgusting. Read the note. Cried. Couldn't really stop. Read the four words repeatedly. It was no suicide note, no dramatic poem, just four words.

She never talked.

She had just told me the whole world.

_I love you Jamie._

I closed my eyes. Blacked out.

Woke up on my bed, prayed that nothing had happened, prayed for a dream. Someone knocked on a door. I did not want to answer.

I did anyway.

"_The Memorial service for Nami is on Tuesday at Three."_

It was Sunday.

I closed my door, walked silently to the kitchen. Drank two or three beers. Tried to forget.

Could not stop thinking, couldn't stop remembering.

Drank two more beers. Still didn't forget. Got somewhat dizzy. Opened the fridge saw fruit, veggies, a pitcher of sweet iced tea, leftover cake.

_She loved sweets. _

I reached for a bottle, twisted the lid, and took a swig of good ole Jack Daniels. I drank most of the whole thing.

Damn, I still didn't forget. Ten minutes later, I puked in the sink. Sat down, tried to think. Tried to stop remembering, thirty whole seconds, I never did blink.

My life was gone.

With one bullet, she was gone. My life. And all I had to blame was Jamie. Discord, anger. Still some left in that bottle, swallowed it all. My tongue still tasted brownies. I tried not to puke. Just like with Nami, I failed. Barfed in the sink, my throat stinging, nose running in little goopy strings of snot…

I finally cried, sobbed like a baby, rocking all curled up in the corner—the perfect example of insanity—screaming and sobbing, and whimpering, hugging my knees, eyes screwed up all tight.

Wish I died right there, wish I died wish I would die, wish I were dead.

She was dead.

I was dead. Pressed my two fingers into the loose skin on my neck, felt nothing. (The wrong place) No heartbeat.

I took a breath, grabbed a small bottle, whiskey, clear and stinging, nail polish remover down my throat. Stinging, biting. I cried some more, passed out. Woke up Monday morning. Ate a cracker. Forgot about the paper crushed up in my pocket. Went to sleep. I slept through the memorial service. Ate something. Cleaned out my clothes. Found the paper, started to cry, read it ten times, and stuffed in my dresser, vowed never to look at it again.

Two months later, I dropped a box of chocolates by a stoned named Nami Wilkerson.

_She loved sweets…_

I left a tear or two. Started a garden of my own. Built a chicken house. Bought a cat. Named it Nami. It was grey.

Too bad, I never knew her favorite color.

It's a year later, I'm standing here, box of chocolates on her grave. I can almost feel a soft breath, a small voice reading to herself, her smile against my lips.

I don't talk that much, just to myself, just to her.

_She never talked…_

I'm just standing here, staring the piece of paper duct taped to the stone right under her name.

_I love you Jamie._

I walk away, close my door, and bake a cake. I'm not hungry. I wrap it up in plastic wrap. Save it for tomorrow.

I'm practically dead. I haven't smiled that much, haven't done that much of anything. Nami begs to be fed. I open a can of Tuna; let her eat right out of it. Sit down on my bed, try to sleep. The house is hot. I turn on the air conditioning. Her face comes to mind. I can hear her reading to herself.

I'm dreaming with my eyes open. Wishing that I could go back a year and a half, before us. Wish I could do things different.

You never know until three seconds after it's already happened. Those five seconds before you part your lips.

With one breath…

They're gone.


End file.
